Hold Me
by p y n q u e
Summary: The way he answers makes Victoria want to say, forget it. / / An experiment in style. Jemima&Plato&Victoria.


**a/n: **Ahh, after an unintentional hiatus, I'm back. I really don't mean to be as MIA as I can be.

Anyway, this is based off of Maria Mena's _Just Hold Me_. You'll need some guidance to read this: It goes Victoria-Jemima-Victoria. Victoria's perspective starts at the beginning of her relationship with Plato and goes to the end. Jemima's starts at the end of her relationship with Plato, and goes backward to the beginning.

**Jemima&Plato&Victoria**. **Human elements**. **Not proofread**.

* * *

><p><em>but if i wanted silence, i would whisper<em>  
><em>and if i wanted loneliness, i'd choose to go<em>

_and if i liked rejection, i'd audition_  
><em>and if i didn't love you, you would know<em>

/

_"Will you go out with me?"_

As soon as she asks the question, she regrets it. She can still see the sad in his eyes, the disappointment in himself. Then it changes to surprise—she can just hear the words swimming in his head, wondering how girls can stay friends when they mix and match boyfriends all the time. Even so, she doesn't take back her offer, just bites her lip and looks him straight in the eye.

_"Okay."_

The way he answers makes Victoria want to say, _forget it_. She shouldn't have asked, should've stopped this crush she had on him the minute he said he was going to ask Jemima out. Victoria was proud of herself, for putting her feelings aside and helping him get the girl of his dreams, who, unfortunately, wasn't her.

_"Cool."_

They stand there awkwardly for a moment, and Victoria bites her lip. She hesitantly links his pinky with hers, and she swears he almost pulled away. She wonders why she's not happy—the boy of her dreams just agreed to be her boyfriend. (Even if she caught him on the rebound; even if his heart was just broken by her friend; even if he doesn't really like her.)

/

_"What?"_

The word falls from his mouth in an unpleasant way. She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to figure out what to do with her arms—cross them, put her hand on her hip? She settles for holding her arms to her sides, clenching her fists. She can't look at his face right now. She knows she hurt him, knows that she's doing serious damage.

_"You can't be serious."_

At this, she looks up, and immediately looks down again. There's a smile playing at his lips, like he wants to think she's kidding, that this is just a test to see if he really loves her. But his eyes say he knows this isn't a joke, and it's killing him.

_"Feelings change. I'm sorry."_

She says, and her words come out harsher than she intended. She needs to get away, she needs to get her phone out and text Etcetera or Victoria or Electra—she can't keep this to herself, she needs advice, wants to forget these two past years, she wants to pretend she still _like-likes _Plato, but she just can't, and wouldn't be able to live with herself if she did. That would be leading him on—and that'd just be too unlike her.

_"Jemima…"_

She shakes her head, and tries to smile. She weakly puts her hand up, signals him to stop. She steps forward and sees a flash of hope in his expression, but ignores it. She gets on her tippy-toes and gives him a kiss on the cheek (rips his heart out; throws away those wedding dreams; breaks a million promises), before stepping back and smiling.

_"See you later, Plato."_

/

_"Welcome to Chez Plato."_

She looks around, tries to sniff imperceptibly. His room is boyish, a bit messy. It's cleaner than she expected, but she still has the urge to _hang up that shirt, throw out that bag of chips, straighten up the blanket_. She wants to smile, thinks that maybe this is the first step to becoming Plato's one and only (or at least _one_), until she gets a really good look at the room. She sees the pieces of Jemima—her rubber "I AM A CHAMPION" bracelet is on his nightstand, her now-too-small sneakers are in the corner with Plato's much bigger shoes, her lip-gloss is on his desk.

_"Your room is…nice."_

It's all she can think of to say. He chuckles at how awkward she looks, and that makes a blush creep up on her cheeks. She sets her bag down; watches Plato sit down on the end of his bed. She kicks her sandals off and goes over to the bed, sits next to him.

_"So, we're exclusive now?"_

He asks innocently, and it almost annoys her. She assumed they were exclusive the moment Plato said 'okay.' Thoughts race through her head—jealous, paranoid girlfriend thoughts (_he's seeing her behind my back_; _he doesn't take me seriously_; _he's ready to get his heart broken again_). She shakes them off and nods, and lays back. Her eyes trace the cracks in the ceiling, the dust on the overhead lamp. She remembers when Plato had everyone to sign their names on his ceiling when he first moved to this house—her name is written in pink, small, in the corner. Jemima's name is in red, right next to the overhead lamp. She wants to paint over it. (But the ceiling's white and white paint can't cover red paint easily. Or, a white queen can't cover up a red one.)

_"I'm over her, just so you know."_

He says, like he can read her thoughts. Her eyes snap open, and she props herself up on her elbows. The declaration surprises her, but assures her of the opposite. If he wasn't thinking of her, he wouldn't have brought her up. If he didn't still love her, his room would be clean of all traces of Jemima. Victoria just rubs her lips together, spreads around her lip-gloss, leaving it uneven.

_"Liar."_

(That night, Victoria sprays perfume before they goes to bed; doesn't take her makeup off; leaves an earring by his lap top; ignores the faint scent of vanilla-scented lotion on the pillows; desperately tries to dispel Jemima from the room.)

/

_"Wanna get some lemonade?"_

He's grinning so widely that is makes her giggle. He's like a kid, so excited by everything on the beach. She nods, watches him leave, and lays back on her towel. Her smile instantly vanishes, once she's sure he's out of sight. She doesn't feel any resentment towards Plato—but every day, that endearing childishness and that eager smile become more and more (bothersome; old; less like Tumblebrutus; all of the above).

_"I'm a bitch."_

She mutters it under her breath, rubs her eyes under her sunglasses. She flips on to her back, mulls over everything. She thinks, maybe, she just not trying hard enough. Plato had always been the one putting the most effort into the relationship. Not saying Jemima didn't like him. She did, a lot, when they started going out. But, for some reason, after two years, she can't find the same (want; need) for him.

_"Here we go!"_

Plato says, sitting on the blue and white striped towel next to Jemima's. She sits up, accepts the cup Plato hands to her. She takes a sip, and her face distorts at the overwhelming sourness of it. Plato laughs, and it makes her stomach sink.

_"Sour?"_

He asks, raising an eyebrow. Jemima smiles at him, braves another drink. But as soon as the sour taste hits the tip of her tongue, she shoves the cup against Plato's chest, and shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut.

_"Sour as hell."_

She says, makes a face. But for a moment, she forgets about her concerns about their relationship, and leans in and kisses him. It's a quick and tender kiss, and it's totally not lacking (fireworks; sparks; magic; any clichéd description). When she pulls back, Plato's got this dopey smile on his face, and her smile falters. Only for a second—but a second he noticed.

/

_"You're out of line, Victoria."_

She's blazing. Blazing with a mix of anger, desperation, and sadness. She wishes she hadn't lost her phone—then, she wouldn't have been looking around his room for it, and she wouldn't have found a bra that totally wasn't hers and wasn't there last time she slept over.

_"Who the _fuck _does this belong to, god damnit?"_

She clutches the offending object in her right hand, throws it at him. He lets it fall on the floor, directly in between them. She knows whose bra it is, but she doesn't want to admit it. She'll act like she thinks the bra belongs to some random cat, that she didn't see Jemima take the bra off from under her shirt as a dare at a party. She focuses back on the matter at hand—she knows that this outburst wasn't just caused by finding lingerie in her boyfriend's room. It was also caused by her god damn insecurities, the constant shadow of memories that looms over her and Plato wherever they go. When they sit next to each other at lunch, and Plato passes a napkin to Jemima and lets his finger brush hers, when his grip on Victoria's hand loosens whenever their friends approach.

_"Who do you think?"_

He blurts it out, and Victoria gasps. It's as if she was physically affected by his words, what with the way she takes a step back. Tears sting in her eyes, and she bites her tongue. He doesn't let his guard down, but she can tell that he feels sorry for it.

_"I'm leaving."_

She says after a long, tense silence. She grabs her keys from his desk, shoves her feet into her heels, and throws her bag over her shoulder. She's shaking.

_"Vic, look—"_

She puts her hand up. He ignores it.

_"No, don't even. You're way too concerned with me and Jemima, Vic."_

She clenches her teeth, her lip twitches.

_"Fuck you."_

She turns around to leave, but he grabs her by the arm. His grip is strong, and it almost hurts. She just wants to get out. This room is suffocating, tiny. The details of Jemima are even more apparent then they were before. Victoria decides, right there, that she will never be able to replace Jemima, hard as she tries.

_"_You _are my girlfriend, Victoria. Not Jemima. I don't love her anymore."_

She slaps him and leaves. (A picture falls out of his pocket, and she knows it's not of her.)

/

_"I like you."_

Her pinky is locked in his while they lay in the middle of a field. It's nighttime, and there are close to a gazillion stars all across the sky. She's never been this far away from a city before, and she's amazed by how beautiful the sky is. She feels peaceful and calm, but at the same time exhilarated.

_"I like you, too."_

She beams at him, her eyes shining. She's never felt so _pretty_ before, and it's an amazing feeling she never wants to let go of. Her smile slowly drops, but it's not a sad thing. She decides that she wants this to last forever, and the realization catches her a bit off guard.

_"Do you think we'll break up?"_

The question just falls out of her mouth, shatters the calming environment they so carefully created. He scowls, takes her tiny hand in his much larger one. He presses their palms together, keeps his green eyes locked on Jemima's. She feels put on the spot, even if she was the one who asked the question. She decides not to take it back. (_Jinxed it!_)

_"Till death do us part."_

It's all he says, and it earns a grin. She nestles her head under his chin and looks up. She can see up his nose, but she can also see his impossibly long eyelashes casting a gentle shadow on his cheeks.

_"Till death."_

(She carves _J + P 4EVER _into a tree.)

/

_"Hey…"_

She's stopped trying to pick up the pieces. They'd been walking on eggshells, and the argument just fucked up everything. They stopped holding hands—hugs and kisses were short. She thinks the only reason Plato's still trying to salvage a relationship (a relationship that never existed; never mattered; will not be brought up in the future; _yes, daddy was my first love_) is so he doesn't hurt Victoria's feelings, but she's not sure what hurts more.

_"Yeah?"_

She approaches him during study hall. She totally didn't try to make herself look nice for when she did this. She sits on the arm of his chair, he takes her hand and kisses it. She doesn't acknowledge the PDA, but rests her chin atop his head.

_"I carved our names into a tree."_

She lifts her head, and he looks at her like she's insane. She tries not to react. (Remain passive. Remain passive.) She takes his hand and lines up their fingers. Her hand is almost as big as his. She wonders if he misses the contrast.

_"I wrote V plus P forever. But you know what?"_

He nods, looking skeptical. He sighs, smiles a little. Victoria waits for him to get the memo that she's not saying anything else until he does.

_"What else?"_

She braces herself, wishes she came up with a less mean plan. She wonders how he'll react, if he'll be sad, or angry, surprised—she wonders if he'll even care. She wonders if she'll influence his future relationships the way Jemima did. She doubts it, but she really wishes she would. She knows that this relationship with Plato will affect her future relationships in the worst way—it would be nice to know it when both ways.

_"I lied. Plato, I'm breaking up with you. Because…I'm not Jemima."_

She doesn't worry about breaking his heart. You need to have a heart in order for it to broken, and his was still in the hands of another girl. She doesn't look at his face—she can picture his expression. Biting his lip,

_"Okay."_

(Funny how it ended the way it began.)

/

_"Hey, Jemima?"_

He comes up to her during gym. She looks pretty in her fancy little sundress, but at the same time she looks kind of stupid for playing big base. She's in line, waiting to kick, cheering on her teammates. Etcetera bolts past them, running at a speed only she could manage, and nearly knocks Plato off his feet. She shouts an apology as she tries to make it around another time.

_"Yeees?"_

She thinks he's just being friendly until she turns to look at him, and his face is beet red. Seeing this makes her face heat up, too, and she tenses. She thinks she can guess what's going on, and it makes her absolutely giddy.

_"Will you go out with me?"_

At this point, Electra, Tumblebrutus, and Pouncival have tuned in to their conversation. From the other side of the gym, Victoria throws the ball at Etcetera, the object slamming into her back. Jemima stares at Plato, eyes wide. Her face is bright, mouth agape.

_"Yes."_

She says it quietly, meekly.

_"Yes, yes I will!"_

She grins at him, and he grins back. She hugs him, and she's almost startled by how eagerly he hugs back. She pulls back, places her hands gingerly on his arms. She tries to come up with something to say, but the words won't come together. (_Plato, I_; _I'm so_; _Is this real?_; _When's our first date?_; _Wow_.) Instead, she settles on:_ "Okay."_

_/_

_and why can't you just hold me _  
><em> and how come it is so hard <em>  
><em> and do you like to see me broken <em>  
><em> and why do I still care <em>

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><p><strong>an: **I honestly am not very pleased with this. At some point, I'll rewrite this. The end was rushed, because I wanted to get something posted.

I realize I didn't develop it well—I needed to have an even number of different perspectives, but it also needed to end in Jemima's point of view. So.

Hopefully, it was worth waiting months for!


End file.
